In My Hands
by Fuyu no Akegata
Summary: A sidestory to my fic Winterdawn, but you don't have to have read it to... I won't say enjoy this one, but to get it. Sakumo-centric... I'm not listing any warnings other than angst, I don't want to lessen the impact, but read at your own risk.


Title: In My Hands

Genre: dark ansgt

Rating: strong PG 13ish Mildest R, just cus it isn't for the little kiddies...

Characters: Sakumo, Kakashi

Summary: That would give it away, wouldn't it...

This is a sidestory to my fic Winterdawn, but you don't have to have read it to... I won't say enjoy this one, but to get it. It is Sakumo centric... I'm not listing any warnings other than angst, I don't want to lessen the impact, but read at your own risk. It IS work safe, however...

_Hemorrhage (In My Hands) - Fuel_

_Memories are just where you laid them_

_Dragging the waters til the depths give up their dead_

_What did you expect to find?_

_Was it something you left behind?_

_Don't you remember anything I said when I said,_

_And I watched as you turned away_

_You don't remember, but I do_

_You never even tried_

_Don't fall away and leave me to myself_

_Don't fall away and leave love bleeding in my hands, in my hands again_

_Leave love bleeding in my hands, in my hands again_

_Leave love bleeding in my hands, in my hands again, oh_

For Ken... Happy Father's Day... /irony June 8, 2008 - I hope you found your friend...

The big house was completely silent as Sakumo went outside to the walkway. Kyoko had been dead for months, but old habits died hard, so he sat outside with his pipe. Kyoko. The wound was still raw and bleeding, and the added burden of the disaster of a mission festered just beneath the surface of his consciousness. Kakashi was not home, but lately that made less and less difference. Without Kyoko, there was no more laughter in the house, and the already serious boy had grown increasingly grave and silent. He was already old for his age, but his recent maturity and obsession with rules and regulations did not sit well with Sakumo. He missed the occasional devilish glint in the grey eyes so like hers. This new Kakashi was harder... driven. All he cared about lately was training. He worked too hard for a child, even a genius shinobi child as he was.

He was still young enough that he retained his baby fat, and the pale, round, dimpled cheeks were only softly tinged with rose, a shade lighter than the pink lips that had a hint of a pout. With his slight build and a few missing teeth, he could almost pass for a six-year-old, except for his height. It was part of the danger surrounding the prodigy; no one expected death from the child, and he pressed the advantage. Luckily those missions were still few and far between. Sakumo dreaded the blank, soulless look that settled over the boy each time, and he dreaded the thought of it someday engulfing him forever.

He examined the angle of the sun. The boy was late again, probably training with Jiraiya's overgrown brat of a student. The two complemented each other, really. He dimly gave a thought to dinner, but became lost in his thoughts again. Before he left last night, Jiraiya had mentioned something, probably not even realizing the significance yet. He didn't know if Jiraiya had yet seen the mission report, knew exactly what was or was not classified, need-to-know, eyes only information. He was sure, somehow, Kakashi knew. He paid more attention to what was not said than what was. Hearing that one minute detail from his friend had thrown everything into a new perspective. He couldn't let this go on. It was one thing for his name to be dragged through the mud, he could deal with it, but Kyoko had made no mistake, was a true hero, and Kakashi deserved better, deserved to not have his abilities or judgment or loyalty questioned. Kakashi's recent obsession with training was most likely a subconscious need to become better than his father, to prove it to himself somehow.

Sakumo had long been acknowledged one of the fiercest warriors in the village, but he also had one of the keenest intellects, and once he saw the road before him and the life left for the tattered remnants of his family, he decided on the only course of action logic and his honor called for. He finished the pipe, savoring the calm, letting the rich tobacco scent wash over him. He tapped the ash onto the gravel path and returned his pipe to its customary place. He walked to the back of the house, toward the small hot spring. It wasn't large like the Hyuuga's, or opulent like the Uchiha's, but the healing waters were probably the finest in this entire area of Fire Country. He rinsed off the dust of the day before sliding into the heated, mineral-laden spring, feeling knots and the tension of months wash away in the rock-lined pool. He soon rose from the water, not lingering as a less-disciplined man might, and after drying himself briskly with a towel, wrapped it around his hips and took the quicker outdoor route back to the living quarters.

The air was crisp with a faint bite to it that promised frost before morning, and he gazed at the perfect blue only found in an autumnal sky or Namikaze's eyes. _That's your type of foolishness and sentimentality, Kyoko, or Jiraiya's. He knew how much you, and then the boy, enjoyed his stories and poetry, and would sit for hours in the garden or at the kitchen table with his latest offering._ He padded down the worn, smooth boards of the hallway. He dressed silently, gathering necessary, required things. He touched occasional items as he walked through the house, memories inundating him, but he kept to his measured, steady pace, neither rushing nor dawdling. He walked barefoot, carrying a small bundle. He needed to talk to Kyoko... he hoped she would listen.

As always, he felt peace settle like a silken mantle about his broad shoulders when he approached the secluded glade. He sank with the ease of habit to the bench beneath the trees, fallen leaves at his feet like a pool of clotted blood. He sat and remembered, talking to his dead wife, watching the early-setting moon. Eventually, the darkening sky recalled him to his surroundings. Kakashi would be home soon.

"Goodnight, love." He set a ring of mingled black and silver strands, twisted and braided around a stick of incense before her shrine. A quick slash of the tanto across his palm, and he let the warm drops flow, anointing the offering, becoming physically one again in the only way he that remained to him.

He knelt in a thicket of maple where the shadows were deepest, white kimono bright in the darkness, facing west to the small shrine. He took a few bites of persimmon, just past perfect ripeness, sticky on his lips and fingers. The sake held in his left hand hinted of pear, crisp and perfect, and he sipped twice, then twice again. Four sips. No more was needed tonight. He composed his thought and put brush to paper, letting the characters dry, folding the heavy paper into a small packet he placed beneath the plate of half-finished eaten fruit. He set brush to paper again, three lines only.

His thoughts were elegant in their simplicity, his actions stark and economical. He parted the spotless garment and with a simple fire jutsu, ignited the prayer stick, sending one final part of him to her, then drew the gleaming metal from left to right across his belly. Another quick pull, this time upwards, and another across... He held steady and rigid, not giving in to the disgraceful urge to crumple, slump forward, merely bowing his head towards his beloved.

It hurt a little more than he'd imagined, but he'd suffered as badly on the battlefield, on missions. There was no healer this time, though, no comrade in arms to aid or even care, but truly this was the fitting solution. His error in judgment had smirched the family honor, tainting Kakashi and even Kyoko's memory. His blood would wash away the guilt and pain, leaving Kakashi a hope for a decent life without him, a life with honor, where he could lift his head and look the village in the eye.

The sky faded, shade of red staining a few darkening clouds on the horizon as his vision dimmed. He floated a bit. _Eh, this isn't so bad. Kakashi has people who will take care of him. Minato's been like another son to me; I feel sorry for what this death will do to him, but it's necessary. Jiraiya will be angry, may never forgive me; he's always insisted there are other ways than the time-honored tradition. Tsunade will accept, grieving inside where not even Jiraiya can see; I wish she'd admit her feelings for her old teammate, if only to herself, but her old griefs are still held too close and dear. Surely Sandaime will take an interest in the boy. Hmm, I wonder if he knew things would eventually end this way. He won't be happy, but he's always allowed us our own decisions, when he could. I just hope Kakashi will understand, accept the spirit in which my life was given, realize the reason I did this for him, to him. I hope he won't take it all too badly. It's a difficult thing, but he's strong; this will make him strong enough for everything in the future. Please let it help. I wish I'd told him one last time how proud I am, the joy I feel just seeing him. I regret not seeing the man he will eventually become..._

Sakumo's breathing gurgled a little, but he was glad he'd chosen the slower, more painful passing that allowed these last moments of solemn, pain-filled reflection. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deep the bittersweet clouds of incense, the mingled scents of spice, blood, burning hair, body and spirit infused together, lazily drifting up towards the heavens. He started at the small sound, the hesitant touch on his shoulder.

"'Tou-san?"

Sakumo managed a final smile for his son. "I didn't expect you yet, Kakashi. You've made me proud, and I want you to be able to be proud of me again, of the family name. Don't hide in shame, anymore; you still have your honor." The boy nodded unhappily. Breathing was more of an effort now; he was less able to will the pain away enough to spend these last, treasured moments with his son.

"O-tou-san? You didn't have to... things haven't really been that bad. Does it... Does it hurt?"

"Not really," Sakumo lied.

Kakashi looked closely, paused before continuing in a small voice. "You're still my hero, 'tou-san."

Sakumo lifted a hand sluggishly to caress the soft skin, stroke the silver hair. His smile faltered a little; the boy was almost as pale and cold as he, one step away from death. Stormy gray eyes were near black in shock. He looked so small, young, lost. The boy lowered his head and took a shuddering breath, then rose with a face full of fierce determination. Kakashi made a formal bow, almost to the ground, and picked up Sakumo's katana. The blade was nearly as tall as he was, but he knew the proper balance of this particular sword.

"I love you, father."

"And I will **always **love you, Kakashi."

The last bit of fading light glinted on the blade in his hands, and he gazed proudly at the tiny, young man, his son, **true **shinobi, and then... merciful oblivion.


End file.
